Pot sized bet
by Mementos
Summary: Nobody would ever think of Sandy Roscoe as a cheating, lying wife. That's why Alan died without knowing only three of the five sons he had were truly his. Short story about a starving son, a curious teacher and a lie dressed up as a family.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello there! As a frequent watcher of Hollyoaks, I decided to write a story dedicated to the Roscoe's family history. I've been walking around with this idea for a long time. Unfortunately Channel 4 isn't available in The Netherlands, so I decided to write it in English instead of Dutch. This may cause some mistakes in spelling and grammar. I hope you don't mind and enjoy! At some point this story will differ a little from the storylines around the Roscoe's, but most of it stays the same. For later chapters I have to warn you for abusive language, eating disorders and other issues that may be triggering. For now: enjoy!**

XOXOXOXOXO

They have to move. It's necessary, she hushes as all five of them open their mouth to start a joint protest. No time for arguments, they need to pack their stuff as fast as possible.  
'It's probably his fault that we have to move,' Robbie says with a small and relatively invisible nod to Freddie, the second oldest of five. 'Fat chance his "so-called" friends have threatened him.'  
'As if your friends aren't as shady,' Jason points out, which causes Robbie to turn red, since Trouble would be Robbie's surname if it weren't Roscoe. The excuse Sandy has for the move comes close to her youngest son's suspicious, it is almost a reproach for Robbie's misbehavior.  
'A village is not as bad as it seems,' Sandy says during diner, 'and it is the perfect place to cool down for some of us.'  
They live in one house, all seven of them: five sons, a mother and a fiancée. Crowded as it might be, the lack of personal space never really bothered any of them. They were all born and raised in London, the place-to-be if you desire anything busy.  
'It'll be a new start, for all of us.'  
As her sons and Lindsey leave the table and she places the used plates and cutlery in the dishwasher, she thinks about the letter hidden under her mattress. Ever since she cut ties with Rick, she has feared he would fulfill the promise in the overtone of his last words: 'If they turn sixteen, I'll return, and I promise to tell them what kind of a slut you are.'  
It could have happened yesterday, as fresh as those words are printed in her mind. This specific memory takes place almost four years after Alan's funeral. She must've been doing something really important, discussing Freddie's misbehavior with the headmaster on the phone maybe, she doesn't remember. There was no tension, not even a hint of, when she walked to the door on command from the doorbell. Afterwards she blamed herself for not paying attention to the window near the door, as she would normally do. This time she didn't. And she wished she had, just a little bit, to simply recognize the face she desperately hoped to never meet again.  
Rick Spencer, her ex-husband and high school lover, stood in the doorway. Slightly grinning, he held up a letter.  
'Delivery for miss Roscoe.' His teasing voice, the ability to ruin everything she had built up over the past four years after Alan died – Rick hadn't changed.  
Sandy didn't know what to do. Let him in, sent him away, treat him like the stranger she wished he were? There was no time to discuss, however, because Rick was Rick, and Rick felt home wherever he went. Without a sign of shame, he walked past the family pictures in the hallway, touching some of them as though he wanted to bring them to life.  
'They've grown up fast,' he said.  
Finally Sandy could say something. 'What do you want, Richard? Are you here for trouble, because if so, you better leave or I'll ask Joe to -'  
'Why won't you let me open that letter for you.' Rick came dangerously close, taking over the letter which he had given her only moments ago. Sandy had no time to even observe the sender, but she recognized the logo of the hospital where Alan had died. She noticed the letter had been opened before, making the fear inside her rise to unknown zones of anxiety.  
'What I've asked for,' Rick started, 'was a little information about Alan Roscoe's illness. Just a little bit here and there, you know. And, my dear Sandy, I discovered something really weird. Look.'  
He was so close now, Sandy could hardly breathe. Through the wet layer on both her eyes she could distinguish a group of words marked in blue.  
No.  
'No,' she whispered, tears now running down her cheeks. 'No, it isn't true.'  
Ignoring her tears, Rick read out: 'As a side effect of the chemo's, Alan's sperm production stopped, resulting him to be unfertile for the rest of his life.'  
'Rick,' Sandy begged, 'please, don't.'  
'I'm sorry, Sandy, but it is true. You, the dirty little whore you were, became pregnant while he was officially unfertile. Isn't that the funniest joke you've ever heard? Hasn't anyone told you that lying is bad? Lying children will be punished, but lying adults…' Rick strangled his hands tightly around her wrists, making it impossible to escape.  
Not that she would. Sandy could only cry.  
'Do they know?' When Sandy didn't answer, Rick tightened his grip, pushing her against the wall. The pictures of her sons burned in her back. 'Do they know what kind of a slut you are? Do they know?'  
'Rick, please,' Sandy cried, 'stop it!'  
'You haven't told them, have you?'  
'You are not their father! You're a monster!'  
'And their father. I have the right to see them, Sandy. Where are they?' He suddenly let go of her, pushing the tables with pictures aside as if they could be there.  
'Please, stop! Stop it!'  
That is all she can remember from that fearful day. The rest is a blur, the kind of when you drank too much and the previous night isn't complete, just fragments now and then passing your mind. It must have been Joe who discovered the mess Rick made, the broken pictures and torn-off curtains and Sandy in the middle of it, unconscious. She never told the police what truly happened that day, that she actually knew the robber, and her sons did, too. He was, indeed, the father of her youngest sons.  
And he would return. The day Jason and Robbie would turn sixteen he would be there and God knows what he would do to them.  
They have to move. It's necessary, she reminds the face in the reflection of the spoon she's holding, but she can't stop herself from crying silently. If only she hadn't been so stupid, so selfish, so unbelievably wrong…


	2. Chapter 2

They still share the same bed in the same room, three to seven meters to avoid each other, despite Ste's attempts to talk about it. Several times he tries to, he really does, but for some reason he can't shape the words in the correct form. He tries writing notes, letters even, leaves them on his desk or under John-Paul's pillow. A rainforest worth of paper he spends on poems and love letters and please-can-you-forgive-me's, only to find out that John-Paul, in fact, never reads  
'Leave it, Ste,' John-Paul says multiple times, 'I need some time to think.'  
One night John-Paul doesn't come home. Ste is afraid he never will come home, that he has to stare at the empty space beside him for the rest of his life. He drinks a glass of wine, tries to avoid the thought of John-Paul with another man. He can't help but imagine this particular guy laying in the arms Ste has preheated, perhaps someone he doesn't know; Ste hasn't yet decided if knowing John-Paul's future husband is worse than being a complete stranger to him.  
Ste grabs another pack of tissues, the twelfth out of an box with twenty, blows his nose and is on his way to the computer as the doorbell rings.  
'I've warned him plenty of times for men like you.'  
It is Mercedes, the person Ste wouldn't invite to come over in a million years. Unfortunately it is too late to shut the door and, as though she lives here, she goes straight up to the kitchen and opens the fridge.  
'What have you done, Steven?' she asks, 'what happened between you and John-Paul?'  
'Fancy seeing you again,' Ste mumbles, 'how was Paris?'  
'Amazing. How is your new lover doing? Does he know your married?' An unpleasant smell fills the kitchen, Ste guesses the source is the pack of milk that has been standing in the fridge for almost two weeks now, possibly longer.  
He stares at his feet, not knowing if the truth is the best answer to Mercedes' last question.  
'Answer me,' Mercedes commands, still studying the contents of the fridge. The smell clearly doesn't bother her, or she can hide it very  
'It was a mistake,' Ste sighs, 'and I can understand John-Paul will not forgive me. But can he at least talk directly to me? So I can make sure it's done.'  
'Where is he, by the way?' Finally Mercedes shuts the fridge and the smell lessens, whatever the source might've been. Ste starts to doubt whether John-Paul threw away the milk or not. He hasn't checked the fridge in ages, living on pizza and wine and the ill-fated hope for John-Paul to return.  
'I don't know,' Ste admits, 'I haven't seen him in three days.  
'And I presume you haven't tried to call him either?'  
'As if he wants to speak to me.'  
'You've got a point in that.' Mercedes looks around. Thanks to John-Paul's farewell the whole apartment is a mess, the tables and chairs hiding under empty boxes of pizza as trying to find shelter for an upcoming storm. 'If I knew my house was in this state, I wouldn't even dare to come back. Jesus Christ, if you want a pet rat, just buy one.'  
'I know it's my fault, I shouldn't have done… Everything I did that night.' Ste lumps down on the only clean chair, pushing aside a tub of Ben&Jerry's so Mercedes can sit beside him. She doesn't accept the chair and sits down on the table.  
'You gonna tell me what happened?' she says, more as a command than a request.  
'Haven't you heard enough already?'  
'Nope.'Ste looks away. 'I don't know why I did it, it just seemed… reasonable or something.'  
'Having sex with someone else is reasonable?' Mercedes frowns. 'For fuck's sake, you're a married adult, Ste! Behave like one!'  
'As if I did it on purpose!' Ste can't help the raspy voice, the tears blinking in the corner of his eyes. 'I didn't want revenge, I wasn't even mad at John-Paul! You know I wouldn't hurt him, right? I would never be that kind of person… Even if I were angry, I wouldn't do it. Not to anyone and especially not to John-Paul. I never meant to hurt him, it kills me to know he feels like this because of me, because I made a mistake I can't undo.'  
Mercedes is silent, then her eyes narrow and she says: 'I've warned him, and still he wanted to marry you. Unbelievable. Men like you shouldn't exist.'  
Ste straightens his back, his shoulders, his head. His mouth suddenly feels dry. 'Believe me, Mercy, when I say I love him.'  
'Strange way to express that.'  
'It's called temporary lust. We all make mistakes, don't we?'  
Mercedes lets out a high-pitched laugh. 'Are you trying to defend yourself? Do you even know his name, or were you too distracted by his dick?'  
'It was a girl.'  
'A girl?' Mercedes repeats, her face in an expression her mocking smile can't hold. 'So you turned in to a cheater and a heterosexual at the same night?'  
It doesn't matter, not anymore, what she may think about him. The tears run down his cheeks, he tries to wipe them away but comes across his unshaven chin, which reminds him why he is crying right now; it makes him even cry harder, without interruptions.  
'I love him,' he cries, 'I love him, I really do.'  
Mercedes shows no sign of pity and although Ste hates her for coming to his house only to humiliate him, he understands.  
'Who is she?' she asks  
'The girl?' Ste dries his cheeks with a napkin that came along with the pizza. 'Cindy's daughter, I don't remember her name.' He hangs his head down in shame. 'She is kind of a slut. Easy to get. She was there with someone else, but he didn't want her, or vice versa, I didn't really care.'  
Mercedes shakes her head in disbelief. 'You are so… My God,' she interrupts herself demonstratively as to express her astonishment, 'you've reached the bottom this time.'


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N Thanks for the reviews! Quick updates really aren't my cup of tea, since English isn't my first language and everything has to be checked up twice before I post it. In Dutch there are a shitload of rules dedicated to the possessive pronoun and where to place the apostrophe, which completely differ from the English rules. I hope it won't bother you too much when you come across a mistake, especially if the apostrophe is somewhere it doesn't belong. If any grammar or spelling mistakes do bother you, feel free to point it out. You're also free to explain where to put an apostrophe in a possessive pronoun. However, thank you for reading, following, reviewing, etc.! X Ilse**

XOXOXOXOXO

'Look what I found!' Mercedes shouts from the cellar. Moments after her echo has reached John-Paul's ears, she appears in the doorway, showing him a bottle of wine. 'A good drink even cures the deepest wounds.'  
'You sound like an alcoholic,' John-Paul says.  
'And you sound like you haven't had sex in three weeks.'  
'Four, actually.'  
Mercedes re-enters the McQueen's living room with the bottle and two glasses, which she fills to the brim. 'I don't want to force it in you, but believe me, you'll feel better after a glass or -' she cuts her sentence to measure the remaining contents of the bottle – 'three, unless you can find more. I'm sure Myra must have left us something. The more the better.'  
'I don't drink.'  
'What other choice do you have? Don't you want to forget about Ste?' Mercedes forces one of the glasses into John-Paul's hands. 'Because there's no better solution than alcohol.'  
'Oh, shut it, Mercy,' John-Paul says as he takes a careful sip. Repeating this movement with a little more confidence, he can feel the alcohol settle in his veins, dissolving in his blood like a carbon tablet. He never was a drinker, unlike his relatives, whom he prefers not to take example from. But a glass or two won't do any harm. If Myra's liver is still working, his is not likely to shut down by half a bottle of wine.  
'You feel any better?' Mercedes asks, already positioning the bottle above John-Paul's glass to refill. 'I won't take no for an answer.'  
'Then be my guest.'  
'Look who's being a chip off the old block,' Mercedes laughs. 'You're a fast learner, though I'm not surprised. Once a McQueen, always a McQueen.'  
'If it weren't for you, I wouldn't drink this much.'  
'Shut up, you like it.' Mercedes jumps off the couch and turns on the radio. Ricky Martin echoes through the room, first in a reliable volume, but when Mercedes recognizes the song, she immediately increases the sound.  
'Merce!' John-Paul tries to drown out the noise. 'Turn that down! Kathleen-Angel is sleeping, remember?'  
'Ah, look who's into superstitions and black cats and voodoo dolls!' Dancing wildly, Mercedes decreases the volume a little. 'Come on, JP! _Living la vida loca_!'  
'You're absolutely crazy,' John-Paul says, though he accepts the invitation to dance with his sister. After the third glass of wine, he shoves the promise not to drink too much aside. Mercedes is right. He haven't had any fun in weeks, so why bother? This in his already spinning mind, he gulps down a seventh glass, an eighth, a ninth… The music bounces through his head, replacing the image of Ste with other men. As the thought of Ste and Holly Cunningham comes to his mind, he quickly swallows another sip, straight from the bottle since he can't remember where he left his glass. He only remembers the music, songs from the early eighties and nineties about sex and drugs – Kate Bush, Madonna, Queen. He calls Ste a whore and Mercedes comes up with several nicknames for Holly, including Holly Cuntham, which John-Paul keeps repeating out loud, replacing every 'mama' in _Bohemian Rhapsody_ with this particular name. As if she could hear them making fun of her.

The next morning Mercedes phones Mr. Blake, John-Paul flagrantly throwing up in the background.  
'He really can't make it, I think he has the flu.'  
'I've heard enough.' Patrick's voice is stern as always. 'Tell him to call me when he feels better.'  
It costs John-Paul an entire morning to stop his contents from coming out. Convulsively holding his stomach, he gags for he thinks is the last time, but all day bending over the toilet leaves him no power to return to his bedroom. So instead he lies down on an improvised bed of towels, the taste of vomit threating his throat as the liquid itself travels between his stomach and throat.  
Around eight o'clock, John-Paul finally finds the strength to go to his bedroom. Mercedes left him a clean pair of pajamas and a note that says 'sorry' followed by a sad smiley and three x's. Well, John-Paul thinks bitterly while collapsing on his bed, she certainly wasn't lying when she promised him the alcohol would make him forget Ste. He did forget him, for as long as it lasted. No bottle can clear the fact that Ste has cheated on him and the price which he pays by trying is far from worth it. It was stupid, to think physical pain would permanently suppress the thought of Ste with someone else, especially when considering he was desperate enough to change sexuality for this 'someone else'. Wasn't he enough for Ste? Couldn't he satisfy his husband enough to prevent him from sleeping with a girl? The thoughts haunt him, even if he knows they can't be true.

Later that evening John-Paul receives a call from Mr. Blake.  
'I assume you'll not be at school tomorrow?' the headmaster says.  
'No, no, I'll be there,' John-Paul answers convincingly, too fast to come up with an excuse. It's for the best, to keep on going and forget about Ste. Daily routine would be a good start.  
'Have you already decided which book you'll be reading with the year 12's?' Mr. Blake asks.  
The year 12's! John-Paul almost chokes in the breath that enters his lungs abruptly. Mourning the loss of his husband, he hadn't had any time to think about something else, especially not related to school.  
'Yes, Yes I have,' he says while scanning his bookshelves. _Lolita, One flew over the cuckoo's nest, The discovery of heaven…_ He forces himself to choose wisely, since he has to dedicate a whole exam to this book.  
'I was thinking about Sartre,' he says, his eyes feverishly searching for the book that popped up into his mind. 'It's a play,' he continues to distract Mr. Blake from realizing John-Paul hasn't made a decision yet. Where's that god-damn book? John-Paul rushes to his bookshelves, wishing he had rearranged the books in alphabetical order as he planned to do a few weeks ago, before Ste took over his mind like a fanatical dictator.  
'Sartre?' Mr. Blake questions to fill the silence between them, 'wasn't he French?'  
'Yes, but his work is translated. It would be a challenge for the kids to analyze a play instead of a book.'Finally the back of the book comes in sight, pressed between _Phantom of the opera_ and _The little princ_ e. Of course; last time he had organized them on basis of the writer's nationality. In his head he praises Mr. Blake for mentioning Sartres origins. He takes out the book, clamping his phone between ear and shoulder while perusing through it.  
 _'Les jeux sont faits,_ ' John-Paul says, 'I bet the kids love it'.

After Mr. Blake's has finished the call with a monotonous 'see you tomorrow', John-Paul sits down on the edge of his bed, head buried in his hands. A long and uninterrupted sigh escapes his mouth, though it could also be a sob, considering he tends to release the tears that blur his sight. He still feels sick, not sure if the alcohol is causing the pain in his stomach or being homesick for Ste's presence. He tries not to, but in the end it's all in vain, because thinking about Ste has become as common as breathing. Thinking what to cook him for dinner, longing for his soft lips when he can't fall sleep…  
Another phone call comes in. Mercedes' caller ID appears on his screen, but John-Paul has no intention to answer it. Instead he lays down on his bed, closing his eyes for he hopes an eternity - if not longer.


End file.
